Editing Rakuin no Monshou:Volume1 Chapter2 (section)

=== Part 1 ===

After that, having slipped into the Mephian territory of Birac, Orba repeatedly stole. He had no hesitation or any difficulties with it. Running around barefoot on the ground day after day, he headed over to another area just before the surrounding people and guardsmen memorized his face, doing the same thing over and over until he, once more, headed for his next location.

He started hanging out with boys of the same age who had the same circumstances. Together, they usually sold stuff they’d gathered from dump sites or stuff they’d stolen at the side of the road, sometimes snitching purses with a single wield of the knife, or threatening wealthy-looking merchants coming out of bars, plucking them of their money.

While spending his days like that, one time, something happened that caused several people to get seriously injured amongst the same-age group Orba was hanging out with. Apparently, they’d been challenged by boys from another group. The children were having a children’s turf war. And as always, it was accompanied by force.

Everything was taken from them. Everything – meaning, they already had such a minimal lifeline where they barely managed to live another day, but if they were cut off like this, basically all of their members would be left for dead.

“We’ll either die, or fight and die. But those who want to do more and win, follow me!”

Orba gave those children who were about to become fainthearted a pep talk. He didn’t want to have everything snatched away from him twice. Gathering up the remaining members of their small group, Orba retaliated against a group of opponents that was much bigger in number.

However, he didn’t attack them straight ahead. He thoroughly gathered intelligence on the rival group beforehand. So, when the timing was right and they had the least number of opponents in place, they carried out their attacks.

What Orba valued above all was information. He always had to have the latest information, understanding both friend or foe, singling out the enemy’s numbers, strength, movements, and other things like that.

''This is what separates adults and children.''

It was the only thing Orba thought. A child who knows nothing only gets robbed without even knowing who the enemy is. But if you distinguish friend and foe on your own, and if you know your enemies, you can become the adult on the robbing side.

When Orba was fourteen, he’d become the leading figure among the boys his age. At first, the group he was acquainted with numbered only about ten, but, increasing with each passing day, it finally expanded to more than a hundred members.

However, the black blood that boiled inside of Orba never cleared away. There were hundreds of verbal disputes as well, where he certainly was the kind of person to use physical strength and mostly settled things quickly with his fists. At the same time, though, rather than spending the nights with his friends drinking alcohol, making a racket, getting in high spirits, and chattering, he was also the type to keep to his own, prop up his knees in a dim corner of the room, and be lost in thought.

Therefore, Orba, who liked to spend the night alone, made some spare time for reading. When immersed in the world of books, he was sometimes reminded of his older brother Roan, thought of Alice, or worried about his mother’s whereabouts.

For how long should he be conserving his strength? First of all, could he call upon that strength when fighting his ‘enemies’? And how many nights more would these thoughts circle around in his head? There was no end to the insecurities and self-questioning. Nonetheless, Orba still held that time of worry dear to him, because it allowed him to keep pushing forward.

It was about four years after coming to Birac.

That day was supposed to be just another ordinary day. Ordinary being extremely busy, counting the profits in the safe from the illegal gambling house he was running, before preparing his meet with influential gun-smuggling merchants in the alleys of Birac, training with sword and gun for about one hour, and revising his plan to attack a merchant ship with several of his best men, which was to be carried out within the week.

The plan at the end of the week was a large scale one. They intended to make a surprise attack on one of the air carriers – formally called dragonstone ships – that was fully loaded with gold bars and goods slated to be delivered to the district west of the city-state, by ambushing it in the ravine located twelve kilometres southwest of Birac. They had three single-seated airships prepared on their side. Several platoon leaders, including Orba, were already assigned with flying practice.

However, because it was such a large-scale operation, no matter how much the boys agreed on the method, there were big holes as well.

Several boys of the former rival group, envying Orba’s success, had slipped into their group as spies, and had leaked several details about their plan to the Birac garrison.

The second floor of the bar they used as a hideout in those days, was attacked by surprise, and Orba found himself surrounded by the city guards. He didn’t have any weapons at hand to fight back and all the escape routes were blocked. The moment he was struck by their ropes, having again become a person deprived of status, Orba bit his lips causing blood to trickle.

''Bastards.''

Still trying to resist as his face and body suffered at the guards’ fists, Orba again felt the swell of dark blood inside of him.

''Shit, shit, shit!''
''It’s not over. I’m still alive. Mephius or Garbera, I won’t be killed easily, not even by these people. I will live. Live by all means.''




He was put in prison for possession of a large amount of illegal weaponry, and obviously for planning to attack a merchant ship, and one crime after another, such as repeated gang robbery and illegal gambling, was further uncovered.

The time to carry out the investigation didn’t take a day. And Orba, who was once more tossed into a cramped cellar, got a hot iron pressed against his back. He was branded. A long, vertical line in the centre of an X mark, was the proof of being a slave.

He got a high fever from the pain, and that evening inside prison, when Orba was alone, writhing in agony, he experienced an even stranger fate.

“…Indeed, they’re alike.”

He was grabbed by the chin and felt himself being lifted. Far from able to shake it off, he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes and see the face of this person. Even without paying attention to any of his emotions, it was like his brains were on fire, simmering slowly. <!--unsure about first part-->

“From what I heard during the interrogation, his voice is also the same.”

“Even though they’re alike, it has its limits. Actually, he seems to be a different person depending on the angle. If he were a little more alike, he’d have some purpose. Well, what’s going to happen after this?”

“According to the place I selected, this man holds some interesting portent. With luck at your side, he’ll certainly be helpful to the master any time in the future, won’t he?”

“But a sword slave? If this kid’s life may not be there on the morrow, how can he be of help to me? If I had known about the verdict earlier, I would’ve considered dealing with it differently.”

“No. You certainly won’t know tomorrow’s fate if you invested in him, but this man should expect to become a huge talent. To put it in other words, nothing can be made of this man now. But after passing his days as a sword slave – naturally, if he doesn’t get his neck reaped on the first day, or possibly die from some other cruel twist of fate – I think that he’ll survive more than three years, no, two years, possibly.”

“Then, I suppose I’ll wait without expecting anything. At any rate, there’s certainly no way this lad can become a slave with his actual face.”

At that moment, Orba, being held down by the same people that had branded him earlier, suddenly felt an oppressive feeling on his face and, with just the trace of a heat like fire, Orba’s skin started burning. He squirmed around, screaming, wondering if maybe it all was a dream, not even being sure whether he was really still alive or not.




The next morning, his body still tormented by the pain and fatigue, Orba was dragged and taken out of the dungeons and then tossed onto a cart where stark naked men were crowded together. The medium-sized Houban dragon, a dragon with a flat body and eight long legs, was fitted for pulling. Still within a light-headed state of mind, Orba went away from Birac being pulled by the dragon.

It was probably about two days later when the journey came to an end. They got a meal once a day, but because it was only one cup of water and some dried meat, the men, including Orba, were exhausted, doubled over, not even having the energy to start a conversation.

“This is another strange slave, huh?” a man with a tanned, muscular body said, white hair and a moustache covering his features as he peered into Orba’s face. “Gladiators that are already renowned often wear such masks or helmets to promote their personal appeal, but is he really a newcomer?”

The man grasped Orba’s face, and tried to pull it off. Reminded of the pain, as if his skin was getting torn, Orba immediately flung back at the arm.

“Bastard!” an armed swordsman said, about to beat Orba up, when the man used only the word “Stop!” and took control, grinning with his lips buried in his beard.

“Looks like this is no ordinary mask. According to your background, you’ve got an unyielding spirit. But most of the time it’s merely only that of a stubborn lad who’ll become nothing more than a tame dog after three days. I was appointed as a breeder who’ll teach you to ‘sit’ and ‘wait’. I’ll teach you first-hand what’ll happen to you if you oppose me.”

With those words, the man raised a fist the size of a hammer and slammed it into his bare back. A painful grunt escaping his lips, Orba doubled over without a word.

“I am Gowen. I’d like to form a long-standing relationship. You’ll be made to kill each other after ten days at the earliest. Let’s hope it won’t come to that.” <!--it may also roughly mean that he has no expectations, but I don't know if he means them or the time for the match-->

After that, the sword slave training began, and Orba also noticed that he was wearing a mask that night. Looking at the mirror in astonishment, Orba, resenting the joke, frantically tried to tear it from his face, but it was stuck closely to his skin and he couldn’t take it off, as if it had become part of the skin itself.

After one hour of wrestling, out of breath and sweating all over on his body, he punched his own strange figure reflected in the mirror.

It cracked with a shattering sound and the iron mask became a warped reflection.

''How far must they go to scorn people? Giving me such a foolish mimicry, how much further must they make me fall?''

''I’m going to live and get out of here, by all means! I’m going to find the ones who made such a mockery of me and make them suffer through the same thing!''

As he pretended not to hear the sound of his own sobs, he crumbled down on the spot.




The next day, Gowen summoned Orba before him in the practice ring and suddenly threw the sword he had in hand at his feet.

“Try to strike me any way you want.”	

Orba looked at his opponent with a look that doubted his sanity. Even though Orba wasn’t thinking about trying to escape right now, at the moment Gowen was unarmed, and what’s more, considering the chains usually tied around his ankles, it was ‘only during practice’ that these chains were removed. 

Orba picked up the sword, bent his back as if building up his ‘reservoir’, and rushed forward within a single breath.

It was much like a surprise attack. He acted without mercy. He aimed for the throat. He was going for the kill.

However, his arm did not reach for half the amount he’d imagined, and on top of that, he was kicked hard and fell to his knees. Standing up, he made the same move once more. It brought the same result. The moment he struck, Gowen nimbly went to his side and suppressed him by the elbow.

“You seem to have a little experience. However, that experience only gets in the way right now. Forget it,” Gowen said, after he easily dodged Orba, who tried to attack him for a third time.

Orba wasn’t used to being told things so unsympathetically. His head was seething with anger as he turned and struck, but Orba had no luck no matter how much he tried to challenge Gowen. What irritated Orba the most was that his opponent didn’t seem to take it seriously. So he cursed Gowen, provoked him, recklessly charged at him saying he’d kill him, while in truth, despite keeping a watchful eye, he couldn’t find any openings in his opponent.

“Are you trying to kill me, Orba?”

Orba’s supposedly polished self-taught style could not be called brilliant.

“But, that’s too bad. You no longer have anything. No name, no status, no clothes, nothing to eat, and you just can’t do anything about it. Yes, even your life. Slaves don’t even have the freedom over their own lives or deaths. Even if you want to get it back, you can’t just repurchase it by offering more money than what you were sold for.”

This one-sided training where he was only getting knocked down was equal to a hellish self-punishment, however, as the day came to an end, an ever more excruciating pain was lying in wait for Orba.

It was the mask’s ‘curse’. At midnight, while he was lying down exhausted, it suddenly emitted a heat like flames that burnt as if they were melting Orba’s face, much in the same way as when the mask was placed on him the first time.

It was mostly in the evenings, through irregular intervals. Sometimes nothing would happen for three days straight, while at other times the heat was being emitted regularly for three days and three nights.

At those times, there was nothing Orba could do. He could only roll over the ground, drawing blood as his ankles scraped against the chains, and continue to hope that the pain would go away sooner, even if just for a second.

''I’m going mad.''
''I’m going mad, I’m going mad, I’m going mad.''

As he rolled over the floor, Orba harboured that fear time and time again, and even thought to become so might only be better. However, the power to hold onto it until the end, just before his consciousness was about to be taken away by a white, splashing wave, worked out at last. Gritting his teeth, bending his back as if the bones should break, Orba endured it just to endure. Many of his fingernails broke, as he tore at the ground, and tore at his mask. 

The other slaves, and the soldiers held responsible for monitoring the slaves of the Tarkas Gladiatorial Group, naturally felt revolted by his figure frothing in pain. Rumours soon spread whether it was a curse by true magic, causing Tarkas, who had bought Orba from the slave traders, to make a bitter face.

“Merchandise is merchandise. Like I care if it’s magic or a curse!? Just don’t ever let him die when he’s not earning his pay!”

Giving those orders, Tarkas was certainly a most undaunted man. Orba was generally ignored as long as he didn’t die a dog’s death.

''I won’t die.''

It was a long, long night. His flesh and bones scraped by pain and the temptation of madness, wishing to die every second, it felt like the night would never break, but eventually it came to an end. Unless Orba himself gave up his life into the darkness, dawn would always come. Exhausted, lying down with his body already having no drop of strength left, he could feel the morning light upon his mask. Unsteadily raising his hands and taking hold of the mask, he pushed strength into his fingers and made an oath.

''Unless someone stabs me in the heart, I will never let myself die.''

It was as Gowen said. ''My life is not mine. But it doesn’t automatically belong to Tarkas either.''

''My life, with all that was taken from me, is all that I have.''

His heart had been beating in order to live until he’d meet his mother, Alice, and possibly his brother Roan again, his muscles only brandishing a sword to reach those who raided them, with the purpose of building a mountain of corpses.

After that, Orba was totally absorbed into his training. The sword and Orba’s body soon became integrated as one. He was holding formless hatred without knowing how to clear himself of it, and different from the time when he was just full of unease. The sword gave form to his hatred. His sword became a spear of hatred that cut and tore through all doubts. Altogether put in another way, it became his desire to live.

“If you want to survive, learn the technique to kill an opponent, and at the same time, also to kill yourself. People who can’t solely kill themselves, are killed by others in the end. There’s no exception.”

Gowen said so clearly. And Orba followed those instructions.

He killed his emotions. He burned them vigorously, roaring like a flame, day and night, so that he could also thoroughly burn himself. However, at the same time, the fire couldn’t be extinguished either. 

Therefore, at midnight, although lying down quietly with possibly his face scorching under the mask, Orba continued burning his secret firewood – the anger and hatred in his chest – smouldering them into glowing embers.

Before long, he received his debut match. When Orba set foot in the arena, he was welcomed by a large crowd surrounding the place.

While the sky and earth were wrapped in loud voices, Orba fought a man that had picked up a sword like him, and killed him. He didn’t even remember whether his opponent was young, or if he was older than him. Only the moment he killed, and the moment even more cheers poured onto his sweating back, was what he remembered in great detail.

“Die!” Orba yelled as he looked up at the spectators. “Fuckin’ die !!”
<!--死にやがれ Basically, he says die with a verb suffix that indicates hatred; like he’s cursing. Can’t really translate it, so I put it like this.-->

Although the voice itself was drowned out by the cheers, Orba raised his bloody sword and continued spitting his profane language at all of them.

And, within one week’s time, he was to perform his second match. It was against a bearded man holding a zigzagged short-sword. It was something of a disgrace. There might have been jeers, or they might have progressed to the name of gods. Twice, thrice, he took a blow from a violent slashing attack. Each time, Orba changed his grip on the sword. He changed the placement of his feet. He was studying how to fight in the midst of battle.

He fended off a sword that was about to attack him from his side. And his opponent’s body was ''opened'' before his eyes.

Orba had swung his sword down right in front of him. The sword had cut into the middle of the face. Blood, bones, and brains were spilling from all sides. His hand growing numb, he hardly had any sense of touch. It was the third time he’d killed someone.




Orba became a gladiator and time went by for a little less than two years. In that time there were countless battles. There were also many endless nights spent counting all of the stars that filled up the night sky.

However, after a year passed, the curse of the iron mask heating up gradually disappeared, and after another half year passed, the periodic maddening pains became unbelievably docile. Although, it was no ordinary mask, as he still wasn’t able to tear it off, not getting a dent whether he struck it with the pommel of his sword or with a hammer. On the contrary it only seemed to endanger his own life and he was simply forced to postpone his wish to take off the mask.

And — when five days passed after Orba stopped the reckless voracity of the large-sized Sozos dragon at the Ba Roux arena,

“I found out why Tarkas was so merry,” Gowen suddenly said at the breakfast table. “You know Mephius and Garbera have been making peace negotiations, right? It looks like they’re finally planning to put an end to the ten-year war.”

“Hmm,” Shique nodded. “So the crown prince of Mephius and the princess of Garbera are going to have a political marriage, huh?”

“Mephius has various etiquette concerning marriages of the imperial household. The marital vows have to be performed at Seirin Valley<ref>Valley of Holy Descent (聖臨の谷).</ref>, for example, and there are also gladiatorial fights in the repertoire to be hosted. It looks like we from Tarkas Gladiatorial Group are the only ones recruited.”

Kain whistled. For a little while now, he was making the repairs of a clock with dexterous hands at the table, as requested of him by Tarkas.

“Well, that means they’re going to make us kill each other in front of the imperial family.”

“We can pay our respects to the crown prince himself. Exciting, isn’t it, Orba?” Shique said, while Orba was as usual bent forward with his eyes on his book.

“It won’t change a thing. Not one. Just putting flowers on armour and sword,” he replied bluntly.